ion melted away and vanished, and the broken spirit turned
writhing and shuddering from the phantom that extended its arms for the
sacrifice, he flung his arms upon the table; his shoulders heaved. I
heard two suppressed, choked-down sobs--the sobs of a strong man--strong
alike in body and mind; strongest of all in the heart and spirit and
purpose to love and cherish.

"_La mort dans l'ame_," indeed! He could have chosen no fitter
expression.

"Send him away!" I echoed, beneath my breath.

"Send my child away from me--as if I--did not--want him," said
Courvoisier, slowly, and in a voice made low and halting with anguish,
as he lifted his gaze, dim with the desperate pain of coming parting,
and looked me in the face.

I had begun in an aimless manner to pace the room, my heart on fire,
my brain reaching wildly after some escape from the fetters of
circumstance, invisible but iron strong, relentless as cramps and
glaives of tempered steel. I knew no reason, of course. I knew no
outward circumstances of my friend's life or destiny. I did not wish to
learn any. I did know that since he said it was so it must be so.
Sigmund must be sent away! He--we--must be left alone; two poor men,
with the brightness gone from our lives.

The scene does not let me rightly describe it. It was an anguish allied
in its intensity to that of Gethsemane. Let me relate it as briefly as I
can.

I made no spoken assurance of sympathy. I winced almost at the idea of
speaking to him. I knew then that we may contemplate, or believe we
contemplate, some coming catastrophe for years, believing that so the
suffering, when it finally falls, will be lessened. This is a delusion.
Let the blow rather come short, sharp, and without forewarning;
preparation heightens the agony.

"Friedel," said he at last, "you do not ask why must this be."

"I do not need to ask why. I know that it must be, or you would not do
it."

"I would tell you if I could--if I might."

"For Heaven's sake, don't suppose that I wish to pry--" I began. He
interrupted me.

"You will make me laugh in spite of myself," said he. "You wish to pry!
Now, let me see how much more I can tell you. You perhaps think it
wrong, in an abstract light, for a father to send his young son away
from him. That is because you do not know what I do. If you did, you
would say, as I do, that it must be so--I never saw it till now. That
letter was a revelation. It is now all as clear as sunshine."